Fever
by wirewrappedlily
Summary: "'Stay', 'lay down', I am not your damn dog." Derek growls. Stiles smiles so evilly he doesn't even have to make the joke about giving him a bone later, and Scott half-sobs, half-cries, because he knows what that smile means, too. Sterek! T for language.


Derek tucks Stiles's burning-hot forehead against his neck, running his hand softly over the too-large shirt Stiles stole from him a month ago after their first time, that he's keeping as a trophy. Derek himself can feel that he's running too cold himself, Stiles sighing against him, and Stiles stretches out on top of him, covering as much as he can to bleed his fever-warmth into Derek's front. Derek's trying to break Stiles's fever.

"You're not supposed to get sick." Stiles mutters, voice far-off and garbled with sleep. Derek loops his arm low on Stiles's waist, knowing that given even half a chance, Stiles's body will slide off of his of its own accord and try to borough under him. He's woken up with elbows in unfortunate places before. Stiles sighs, but it sounds like a whimper, and Derek wonders if he could make it to the kitchen and back without collapsing. "G-Gotta stay, though...tonight-gotta stay…"

"I'll be here-"

"Morning, too. No leaving." Stiles demands, his voice getting distorted with pleading urgency and a stuffed-up nose, "Stay. I love you. Stay."

Derek lays his palm flat against Stiles's back, his breath not even catching that Stiles just told him that he loves him. Derek feels the words bubble to his lips in return; feels the way they feel like a cloud of sugar and innocence like they didn't even when Kate had stolen his. It makes him beat them back down; he had to protect himself, above all else. Can't let himself put more into this than what he'd already put in, because there's a 99.9% chance that Stiles will grow up even more than this whole clusterfuck has already forced him to; and he'd see that Derek isn't the man for Stiles, because Stiles deserves...just _more_. But then, what has Derek put into this...this _tryst_? What has he already given without thinking about it? He's here, for one thing. Stiles's bedroom had been in front of him before his brain could quite process anything else after that thing had bitten him, because Stiles meant _home_, _safe_, and _care_. And Stiles, with his brain baking and swaying on his feet just from standing to walk to Derek...Stiles had stripped him of his blood-caked and dirty clothes. He'd had him wash and then he'd washed the wound, threatening the whole time that if Derek didn't let him help take care of him, he'd physically fight Derek, because he was just delirious enough to be alright with causing himself broken bones by punching Derek in his "rock-solid, manly bosom". Derek had let Stiles go so far as to push him into his freshly-made bed, looking uncomfortable about being sick if only for the fact that the scent would bother Derek. Derek had yanked him unceremoniously down on top of him and arranged Stiles with infinite familiarity in the act.

And what had made him familiar with curling Stiles's legs just so over his thighs? He'd been so strong and so steadfast in not letting himself reveal a damn thing to the boy, and all it'd taken was hands on his skin after he'd almost been shredded apart. Stiles's hands and his voice, sure and strong and so pissed. So very, very pissed, and Derek would've laughed if he'd had it in him, because Stiles's anger pulsed thick enough through the air that even the wolf in him quailed a little in the face of it. And he'd known Stiles wanted him back, so when Stiles had told him not to die, his immediate response had been, "Kiss me and I'll think about it." He blames blood loss for the line, but the kiss had been like lightning to him. After that there'd been long nights watching some of the strangest television there could ever possibly be, and Stiles would make even attempting to keep up with it a moot point, straddling his lap and kissing until Derek had to stop them, holding them close unconsciously as their bodies calmed down, pressing lazy little kisses to Stiles's loose and relaxed mouth. Stiles would grin against his lips, looking at him through his thick fringe of lashes, and Derek would raise his mouth to those, too, sweeping his thumb over one sweet curve while he kissed the other closed, pulling him down against Derek's chest and curling him up safely, as compact as possible, because Stiles felt safer the more of him was in Derek's arms, and Derek still wanted to shred Gerard and Peter apart for ever hurting him.

Then Stiles had gone up against the Alphas with him, and they both made it out almost unharmed with half of the Alpha Pack dying or dead. That night, though, there hadn't been any leeway for control when Derek needed to look Stiles over, to make sure he was mostly intact despite what he could sense and what Stiles was telling him. Stiles had felt the same way about him, and with the both of them taught as a tuning fork, there was no way they weren't going to be taking each other to bed. And that had been...it'd just been _Stiles_. Hilarious and a little failing but sensual and sexy and a breath of fresh air in all the years he's been choking to death on smoke. They fit together when they let themselves, and it made them unstoppable. The Alphas had tucked tail and ran with a well-placed threat from Stiles; simple, blatant, and spoken with levity that was far more chilling than a growl. The anger had swelled in Stiles again, a hard crackle of power that was nameless and huge running through the air that made it thick and heavy. Stiles had moved just slightly in front of him; and the Alphas, in turn, had backed off. Stiles and he were that good of a team.

And, really, there was no end to the number of times they were thrown together to prove that. Stiles had borne up under being kidnapped and tortured to send Scott and Derek a message, and Derek never would have found out about it if Gerard hadn't taunted him with the knowledge with his actual dying breaths. And suddenly it had made sense why Stiles was even more twitchy; why his heart stammered at the mention of their hunt for the fallen Argent. Scott hadn't known, either, and Derek could remember that night, Stiles shrinking on himself and deflecting about his car, and Scott hadn't asked him at all why he'd been so beaten up. Derek had been furious, had gone directly to Stiles's after killing Gerard once and for all; knocking on the front door rather than slipping through his bedroom window, because now he understood why Stiles locked it, why him getting through made him so damn jumpy. "He's dead. For good this time." Derek had told him, eyes falling over the hard cut of Stiles's cheek, the bruise vivid in his mind. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell _Scott_?" He'd demanded. Stiles had looked away for a moment before gathering himself up, proud and tall and strong. He'd told him that Derek hadn't needed to know: that Stiles was actually capable of dealing with it himself, and there was no point in letting Gerard win by telling them what he'd done. Derek had stayed outside of Stiles's window, forced to listen to his panic attack and completely unable to do anything about it. Derek had given in to loving him then and there.

Before that he'd fought even doing that much. If anyone saw how much it really mattered to him that Stiles survived-especially Gerard, Peter, or Stiles himself-he'd've been killed instantly and without mercy, just because Derek wanted him to keep breathing. Stiles was vital and alive and infuriating, but he was so fragile it tore Derek apart of think he'd ruin him with a touch. He'd made it painfully, blaringly obvious over and over, too, because Stiles's safety _came first_. He'd pushed Stiles into Scott's hands in the police station; he'd turned his back on a threat to make sure Stiles ran away; he'd taken the risk of losing Isaac to make sure he didn't attack Stiles; and he'd crawled over broken glass, just to make sure Peter walked away from the human boy who'd helped him so much. He'd denied loving Stiles from the first time he'd seen him, looking for Scott's inhaler. He'd known then, had sensed the new werewolf in front of him, but Stiles...Stiles had stirred something in him that had nearly made him sick. He didn't want to fall in love again; abhorred the idea, and here his wolf was, taking one look at the little human beside a creature that could kill it, and he wanted to curl up around him, to protect him in every way the wolf could. He'd heard Stiles as he'd trudged back to the burnt out shell of a house, trying to keep his cool. "Dude, that's Derek Hale." And just like that, Derek had gotten sucked in by Beacon Hills and all the horrors that came along with it.

So, really, the question is more what _hasn't_ he already given to Stiles without thinking about it?

"Stop thinking, sourwolf, I have a headache." Stiles whines faintly.

Derek blinks, "What's that to do with me thinking?"

"You think too loudly. H-hurts my head. Stop it." Stiles moves and plants a kiss on his jaw, sighing sweetly and going completely limp. Stiles shivers a little, and Derek feels a hard stab of need to take away Stiles's sickness. "You're healing...no pain-leaching for sourwolf." Stiles tenses and moves, grabbing a tissue and rolling off of Derek's front to sneeze explosively, whining as he lays back against the pillow.

"Where're your aspirin?"

"I thought they don't affect wolves…"  
"They don't, but they do bring fevers down."

Stiles hums, "Can't take any more. Not tonight, anyway. Just...just stay." Derek doesn't like it, but Stiles grips into the sweatpants Stiles talked him into and pulls himself closer. "You're healing. No."

"I can make it to the bathroom and back, I'm not that frail."

"Says the man who actually dropped upon climbing through a bedroom window he uses more than his own front door. No moving."

Derek kisses Stiles's forehead, holding him tighter at the blaze under his skin before kissing his eyelids and his wrists. "You're too hot, Stiles, I'm worried."

"Don' worry...you're still far more physically attractive than I'll ever be...Doesn't matter how hot I get." Stiles sighs tiredly, his fingers in Derek's sweats the only tense part of his body.

Derek huffs, covering Stiles's forehead with his cold hand, more worried about the fever than he is about his own predicament. "Stop talking." He growls, kissing Stiles's lips softly over and over.

"Keep...kissing...me." Stiles counters between kisses, grinning impishly.

Derek sighs, giving him a soft, slow kiss that lasts longer than the others before nuzzling at his cheek, "I promise, I will come back, but you have to let me go and get you a cold compress. Your fever is too high." Derek doesn't know _how_ he's going to do it, but he will, for Stiles. He always will for Stiles.

Stiles's fingers release with a sigh, and Derek is hit with huge, soft brown eyes, "Be careful? You're...you-"

"Stiles," Derek hushes, kissing his lips, "I'll be right back."

Getting downstairs happens and Derek isn't entirely sure he didn't just fall down them. But he does make it into the kitchen, and his head is spinning but his vision's clear. He wets down a towel and piles it with ice, getting a glass of water in a hand that shakes more than he'll ever let Stiles see, and he must be in really bad shape, because Scott's hand closes over his wrist before he can sense him, and Sheriff Stilinski's standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his mouth moving like he's talking, but Derek can't hear him right now.

Scott pulls Derek's arm over his shoulders, supporting him and walking past the sheriff, who takes Derek's supplies. Derek thinks he says something about promising that he'd go back to Stiles, but he doesn't know for sure, he could be mumbling nonsense. But instead of heading out the front door like Derek expects them to, Scott turns towards the stairs, helping him stumble up, and Derek knows that the sheriff is following them, probably still talking; probably telling Scott that it doesn't matter what Derek wants or what he promised, he should not be allowed in his house or near his son.

Stiles pulls himself up on wobbly arms, and guides him down as Scott carefully sets him down, pulling him into Stiles's chest and wrapping his lithe arms around Derek's back and neck, hugging tight. Scott produces something from his bag, and Stiles takes it from him, tipping Derek's head back and talking to him, but Derek still can't hear properly. Stiles looks apologetic, and he holds up the bottle to Derek's lips. Derek has enough hold on himself to drink, and he does, even though it's the single nastiest thing he's ever had. His ears pop painfully, and he can hear himself hiss before sound floods back in, and Stiles's hands are trying to pull him in closer, up higher, wrap around and protect him. "Derek? Derek, it's okay...calm down, it's okay." Derek realizes that he was almost shifted, and he focusses on Stiles's voice; his warmth and his smell. On his anchor where the anger failed. Stiles's fingers brushed through his hair over and over, "Deaton made something to counter-act the venom…" Stiles sighs, voice reedy, and Derek panics all over, Stiles's fever making him worry again. Stiles's grip on his shoulder tightens, keeping him down. "No, no, no, young man, Scott had to carry your lycanthropic ass up here…"

"Stiles, I don't like it, but I'll allow it." The sheriff tells him, nodding at Derek on his bed, "You can stay here, but you're staying through to morning this time, son."

"Ha! See?" Stiles pokes him in the chest and pouts theatrically like it hurt his finger, snorting and grinning after a moment.

"I'm sorry-"

The sheriff shakes his head, holding up a staying hand, "I don't disapprove of you two dating, that's not what I meant."

"I do! ...But Allison yelled at me about it, so I'm willing to leave it at 'hurt him and I'll rip your throat out with my teeth'."

Stiles giggles, and he cups a hand around Derek's forehead, holding him back against his chest, "My dad doesn't disprove of us dating, he just doesn't like that you're in my bed."

"Which I know is a regular occurrence, but I still don't have to like it."

Stiles and Scott both made faces of horror, even if their reasons were different. Stiles lets Derek go after a moment, and Derek reaches for the ice the sheriff is holding, pressing wincing in apology before pressing it against Stiles's skin, "You're shaking. Lay down."

"'Stay', 'lay down', I am _not_ your damn dog." Derek growls. Stiles smiles so evilly he doesn't even have to make the joke about giving him a bone later, and Scott half-sobs, half-cries, because he knows what that smile means, too.

"From what I hear, the big bad wolf actually gets rather cuddly around Stiles." The sheriff growls out, and it turns them all to the guilty look on Scott's face, Stiles looking expectant and thin-lipped for an answer.

"I had to tell him! It was stupid not to!"

"He's actually right about that, though I understand the secrecy. _You_," he pins Stiles with a glare that Derek could outdo in a heartbeat yet seems to work on his son, "don't ever do anything like that to me again."

"He won't, sir. Thank you…" Derek doesn't know where to start with thanking him, but the sheriff just nods, putting a hand on his shoulder and motioning for Scott to follow him out.

"Stay the night, I want to have a discussion with you over breakfast tomorrow, and I don't think you're well enough to be going anywhere anyway. Stiles,_ I am in the next room_."

"How come I get the 'don't have sex' warning?!"

"Because you're the one to worry about?" Scott and Derek hiss at the same time, and Stiles bursts into a fit of quite giggles.

"I'm going to be on the couch downstairs. Last time you got this sick, you needed twenty-four hour supervision and a continually rotating hiding place for all caffeinated beverages." Scott grumbles, "And since I can hear you: please, no sex."

Stiles waits until the house has settled down, turning a grin on Derek, who is in no way giving in, "That almost makes it even better, we can have orgasms and freak Scott out at the same time!"

"You have the plague, shut up." Derek holds back a chuckle as he hears Scott mutter a 'thank you, Derek' from downstairs, grinning and shaking his head instead, and Stiles reaches for him, looking happy.

"Please, you love me." Stiles snorts dully, his eyes closing. From the other room, and from downstairs, Derek can hear the small sound of 'he does', and his heart throbs in his chest. He leans down, taking the ice away to kiss Stiles's forehead, the smell of adrenaline that was there when Scott dragged him in the room dissipating in the face of relief that Derek was okay; the underlying current of desperation and power that had nowhere to go fading from the air into a soothing lull; the steady beat of Stiles's heart, of Stiles's best friend's heart, of Stiles's father's; and the evening, slow breaths of Stiles's sleep that carry the scent of fever and sickness, but also a strength and resolve to _get_ _better_.

"I do love you." Derek breathes into Stiles's ear, kissing his cheek as he wraps his body around him from the side, bringing the blankets that he'll be too hot for soon up around them. He slides his fingers through Stiles's while his other hand balances the compress still, laying his chin on Stiles's shoulder and smiling against Stiles's neck like the big, bad wolf, "I'll eat you up, I love you so."


End file.
